our taxi is on the bridge and sampaafulhu is sending her mother siththi a text.

‘i said ‘baiy thahteh modelamaa,” she tells me, maybe because i seem inquisitive. it strikes me as a bit funny, this grown (and beautiful) lady asking her mother to mix her lunch with her hand. i mean, doesn’t siththi have better things to do in her old age (tho she’s actually not THAT old, barely sixty and looks pretty well for her age. like an older samfa, if you must know).

‘i’ll come up for a bit,’ i tell samfa as we get out of the taxi.

upstairs i greet my in-laws, habeeb is on the swing in a mundu and siththi is in the kitchen, smiling.

‘wazzup siththi,’ i say.

‘husenfulhu,’ she seems happy to see me. ‘we’ve got garudhiya today, you don’t like it do you?’

of course i don’t. i am a rihaakurudhiya person through and through.

‘ma, where’s my baiythashi?’ asks samfa.

‘hoon, you think i have nothing to do but mix your rice for you?’ says siththi. exactly what i thought she’d say.

‘are you eating with us?’ siththi asks me.

‘he’s going to his mother’s,’ says sampaafulhu. ‘she’s made him his favourite.’

‘what is his favourite?’

‘faiy baiy,’ says samfa.

‘FAIY baiy?’ goes siththi.

‘it’s actually better than it sounds,’ i tell them. ‘well, i just wanted to say hi, i’m gonna go.’

the first cycle taxi i get cancels the ride because he thinks i have an attitude. i just wanted him to come pick me up outside the house, but for some reason, he didn’t think it was worth his while and wanted me to walk two minutes to the main road. i mean, HE is the taxi driver. i suppose a man’s got to have standards.

‘and that’s the problem with faiythoora’s fiction now, NO standards,’ i tell mother at my parents’ overpriced and ugly hiyaa flat. ugly because of their two hideous sofas. i wouldn’t pay 10k to live here and they’re paying almost double that. but better than living at home where there’s barely any natural light. this flat is swimming in sunlight, i have to admit.

‘it used to be that people like ibrahim shihab and mohamed jameel didi wrote for faiythoora,’ she says.

‘why aren’t you eating quickly? you always eat like you have to rush out somewhere. is it bad?’ she asks.

‘it’s just a bit bland,’ i tell her. ‘maybe you didn’t put in enough sauce?’

‘i did. an entire maggie bottle,’ she is a bit aghast.

‘maybe it’s the salt?’ i say.

‘yeah, you’re right, i think i was too miserly with the salt,’ she says. ‘let me put some in your plate.’

‘no, ma. it’s alright. this isn’t inedible. just not up to your usual great standards.’

i finish my meal and mother tells me to go say hi to my father, with whom i don’t get along too well because we’re a bit headstrong. also, the first thing he’d do when he sees me is point out some flaw in me – it could be my hair or my nails, whatever.

‘husenfulhu,’ says dad turning away from his ipad. ‘did you iron those trousers?’

‘yeah, but a while ago,’ i say. see what i mean? ‘i just wanted to say hi.’

‘i heard you talk about faiythoora,’ says dad. ‘did you just buy one?’

‘yeah yesterday from the bahuge academy. it’s a bit disappointing. the standard of fiction.’

‘it’s because people don’t care for the rules anymore,’ says dad. always with the rules, this man.

‘no, it’s not that,’ i tell him. ‘it’s just that there’s no joy in the expressions, no magic, it’s all very dull and rote.’

‘ah,’ says dad, surprising me a little. ‘yes, i understand. in english you can tell something in so many ways, and so imaginatively.’

‘exactly.’

‘i don’t think our writers can write well in our language if they’re only exposed to dhivehi literature. they need to read english literature,’ says dad.

‘any literature beyond ours,’ i tell him. ‘if they know the language.’

and then i notice the text on dad’s ipad, a chapter heading in spanish.

‘are you reading spanish now?’

‘yeah i’m getting chat gpt to teach me the language,’ says dad. whadayaknow, an old man can learn something new.

outside, as i ride down in the lift, i think about how much our lives have changed. in the 60s and 70s, my parents were half starved and living in thatched houses, shitting into holes in the earth. in the 80s and 90s we were being battered by the headwind of our swiftly modernising country. and thirty years ago my dad had not even seen a computer. now, he’s being schooled by one. what a strange and surprising thing, this life of ours.